


Imagine: Giving Castiel a properly pleasureful welcome home the first opportunity you get him alone (sort of) after his return from the Empty.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [56]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Giving Castiel a properly pleasureful welcome home the first opportunity you get him alone (sort of) after his return from the Empty.

_‘Carpe Angelum!’_ Seize the angel; or rather, seize whatever the Latin equivalent of finally having the sliver of a chance to show said seraph how glad you are to have him home is. It’s a motto you’re inspired to get on your knees to deliver; and how appropriate and how prayerful a position to express gratitude for the return of this particularly handsome host of Heaven. Not that an Old West-themed motel room, replete with dusty yellowed photographs of bygone days interspersed with the desiccated taxidermy skull of a jackrabbit, remotely resembles a house of worship or does anything at all to enhance the mood, but it’ll do.

Castiel observes you settle before him on the kitschy cow hide rug and cap a palm to each of his knees with quiet curiosity; when you pry the lax limbs apart to fit your body into the gap between, running your hands up the navy fabric covering the muscular thighs, heat of friction resounding on his skin in their wake, he tenses slightly under the sensually massaging slide. 

Tongue emerging to seductively lap at the smirk plumping your lips, your focus lifts from his clothed loins to blues growing precipitously blacker - the gleam of curiosity curtailed by carnally dilating pupils.

 

Left brow banking upward, he poses an unspoken question of the wisdom of your intentions; his steady gaze silently warns, too, that although he’s interested - _very_ interested given the thickening bulge nestled in his trousers - this is the sort of devotion meant for more private ministration. 

Unconvinced by the argument, you snort lightly through flared nostrils and reach for his belt buckle. Sure, Jack said he’d be back in a few minutes from fetching fresh ice, but you know the boy will find a distraction along the way to keep him longer, and you also know all you need is a few minutes to drive the angel to the edge of glory.

Still uncertain, zipper defeated with a softly metallic whir by deftly flying fingers, Cas casts a glance toward the swinging doors separating Sam and Dean’s sleeping space from the sitting area. Very little stands between you and Dean’s bear-like snores, and Sam is a notoriously light sleeper.

Smirk assailing to round out your cheeks, you ignore his virtuous prudence. Ever since his surprise return from the emptiness of celestial oblivion, you haven’t had a moment alone with the angel and you intend to make the most of it to show him how much he was missed.

Band of his boxers pushed down, a growl rasps from his graveled throat. He bucks his hips, relaxing the straightness of his spine to sink into the couch cushions as you grasp his length and tease him free in a practiced sweeping motion; heat of his arousal liberated, heft resting in starkly contrasted in crimson engorgement against the crisp white of the shirt shrouding his belly, the proud length twitches absent your warm touch in the icy air conditioned atmosphere.

You rock backward onto your ankles to take the sight of the seraph in; a low hum of admiration loosens from lips moist in anticipation of his taste. 

“They’ll hear us.” One final admonition rumbles his ribcage even as his fist clasps your wrist pleading for the swift relief of your caress; the dark hue of his gaze also speaks to the contrary of his tongue - despite his worry, he wants and needs this just as much as you do.

“Then be a good angel,” -dipping down, eliciting a shudder and sharp sigh when you firmly grip his base, your cautioning breath caresses his cock, “-and be quiet.”

Your tongue swirling his salty tip, he obeys. 

Enclosed in the velvety volcanic chaos of your mouth, watching your pink lips stretched thinly pale over and over again embracing his girth, your teeth scraping every so often to jolt his vessel electrically, smoothing and whirling the ridges of his manhood with the encasement of your fingers where your mouth does not suffice to devour him, he tangles his fingers through your hair and he obeys.

Body a quaking concrete block of rigidity the in build-up of bliss, dark dense lashes fluttering shut against the explosion of ecstasy blinding his angelic perception, he obeys, swallowing a desperate groan of your name as you swallow every last drop of his pleasure.

Wholly unnecessary respiration ragged, a glisten of sweat dampening a brow that sweats under no circumstances, small satisfied smile adorning sex-slackened features, heavy-lidded blues shining the depth of his fondness watch while you tenderly tuck him away and tidy the dishevelment of his attire. “C’mere, honeybee,” he murmurs, a sensually sated affectionate slur, when you finish. 

You curl up on the couch beside him in the offered cradle of his arms.

He nuzzles your tousled hair, inhaling deeply of your scent before speaking. “That was-” There are no words for what that was; eyes wetly brimming, he holds you tighter and doesn’t try to find them.


End file.
